


The Faith of Dead Men

by HysteriaLevi



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HysteriaLevi/pseuds/HysteriaLevi
Summary: Just a series of "journal entries" I wrote about Arthur’s inner conflicts and a gay romance I made up in my head because I make everything gay. Hope you enjoy lmao (btw this story has no spoilers. I’m only on chapter 4 myself)SIDE NOTE: If you'd like to see a more elaborate story about this pairing, I have another story called "When the Devil Cries" that shows the entirety of their relationship :)





	1. The Faith of Dead Men

From Arthur’s POV

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE SAINT DENIS

Adjusting my hat so that it would block the sun, I squinted in the golden beams of light and lazily rode ahead, mindlessly wandering into the vast, open fields full of emptiness.

It was only a few moments ago that a vicious thunderstorm had been tearing through here -- and some of the somber clouds still loomed above like a shadow of my own past -- but right now...it was just...fog. Everywhere. No matter where I went.

The fog obscured everything around me. It blurred out the buildings, the trees... hell, even the people. All I could see...was light. Flooding across the land. It was like heading straight towards the gates of Heaven itself...but I knew better.

A man like me, with a life like mine...I wasn’t ever gonna reach Heaven. No space for the immoral, nor the irredeemable. Sure, there were a few fools out there who believed I was a better man than I thought, but what did that matter to God? If he even existed. 

Plenty of good men lived in this world. It was the ones who could stay true to themselves that made a difference. 

But most of ‘em were dead now. Killed by those who either didn’t believe or didn’t care about eternity. And I knew as well as the next person that, the faith of dead men, it didn’t change nothing. Not unless the living took an interest. But we had enough problems of our own already. And so, the dead would remain forgotten.

Well, all of them except for one.

There was a man I met back in Saint Denis...about a month or so ago. He was from England. Young, passionate, seemingly untouched by this world’s troubles and suffering. Far too good for someone like me. And yet...we just kept bumping into each other. Quite literally, in fact.

First time was outside that fancy, high-society saloon. What was it called, the Bastille? I had just downed a few shots of their “real” whiskey and was making my way back to camp, when suddenly I ran into the boy after strolling through the door. Papers went flyin’ everywhere. Into my face, into the street, into the mud. It was a damned mess, but I did what I could to help. Unlike the other strangers passin’ us by.

Soon as I picked one up though, I noticed they weren’t the same kinda notes I wrote. They were music notes. 

That was when the boy started to explain -- rather frantically, actually; as if he were embarrassed -- that he worked as a musician. A pianist, specifically. And not the kind I always saw in saloons. He performed at the Râleur Theater, alongside Aldridge T. Abbington and all those other clowns. Except...he was nothing like them. 

Whereas the rest of them performed to entertain or to put a smile on the audience’s face, this man performed to tell a story. 

And tell a story, he did. His music was unlike anything else I’d ever heard. There were no words involved, but I felt I could understand every single note. Not really the type of thing I ever expected a dolt such as myself to be interested in, but that was just one of the things this man revealed about me. It was...a little frightening how easily he could read me sometimes. 

Neither my crimes nor the bounty on my head scared him off. He actually managed to convince himself I had a heart of gold lying somewhere underneath all the grime and gunslinging. Told me that he believed my wrongdoings were nothing but a mask. A way for me to fit into my world of outlaws. After all, in this society, conformity was our only guarantee of safety. And maybe he was right.

But I’d never know now. With the time I should’ve spent protecting him, I wasted it falling in love with him instead. Snuck out of camp every chance I got just to go see him...to listen to his music one more time. To talk about our meaningless lives and the philosophies justifying them.

We laughed, we drank, we made love, he played his piano and I listened -- the boy even wrote a song for me as a surprise. First time I heard it was when he invited me to his show at the Râleur. The little rascal had saved it for last, and even gave a brief speech before starting it. He said it was “for a man he had only met recently, but had already changed his life more than anyone else he’d ever known.”

I let out a soft chuckle at the memory, my heart lifting for a second as I thought back to those times. 

I could still remember the crowds piling in to see him, and the applause that would break out after each song. It was one of the few moments in my life where I actually felt at peace. Where I felt...I dunno, human.

That man may have only been a pianist, but to me, he was the closest to Heaven I was ever gonna get. A true angel walking amongst unworthy men. I guess that’s why God took him back so soon.

As fun as our utopia had become, we grew careless. I grew careless. I didn’t realize what was happening around us, and couldn’t see the danger closing in.

Someone -- I don’t know who, or when, or how -- but some bastard out there caught us being sweet on each other. Word spread like the plague as it always does, and one day...the universe just went silent.

I couldn’t find the man at his house, or at the theater, or at the saloon. His piano had been abandoned, and it seemed as if all of Saint Denis had just suddenly...forgotten about him. His absence haunted me for days straight. 

I kept trying to tell myself that perhaps, he just left. That maybe he returned to his home in England -- or maybe, he finally regained his senses and left me behind...but I knew none of that were true. Something about the situation just didn’t feel right, and when I finally found him a whole week later...I felt even worse.

The O’Driscolls got to him. 

They knew how much this poor boy meant to me, and they knew how much it would hurt if he were to disappear. 

So they dragged him off to some godforsaken corner of the world while I wasn’t looking, did lord-knows-what to him, and left nothing but a beaten and mangled corpse behind for me to discover. By time I located him, I could hardly recognize the man.

Snapping back to reality for a moment, I loosened my grip on the reins when I suddenly realized how tightly my fist had clenched as I continued to ride.

How many people had died because of me? How many lives had I endangered all because -- like the idiot I am -- I went chasing after some impossible dream that I’ll never be able to reach? 

The pianist wasn’t even involved in all this crap between Dutch and Colm. Just some unfortunate soul who got caught in the crossfire because I grew selfish, and couldn’t resist the temptation of finding that special someone.

I may not have killed him, but his death was my doing...and I was gonna have to spend the rest of my pointless life knowing that. I just hoped I lived long enough to see the O’Driscolls burn. Then, at least, I could die a happy man.

For now though, I simply carried on with my lonesome journey and trotted through the fading mist, the white sun sinking beneath the horizon as this stormy evening steadily came to an end. 

There wasn’t much for me to look forward to. And if I was being honest, I didn’t even know what the hell we were doing anymore...but it was all I had left to fight for. 

And so, like the rest of the dead men sleeping in the dirt, I desperately held onto a dream that was beyond reach and damned the risks, praying that if I did somehow die in the middle of this mayhem, my faith wouldn’t be buried with me.

After all, it was the only thing that mattered anymore. The only thing people would remember me by. The only thing I’ve ever known.

Redemption.


	2. A Saint Within A Sinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling motivated again, so here’s a continuation of The Faith of Dead Men. This fanfic focuses on a botched robbery and like before, Arthur’s ever conflicting thoughts as well as the same romance from the other fanfic. Hope you enjoy. (No spoilers in this one either)

From Arthur’s POV

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE RHODES

NIGHTTIME

“You’re not a bad man, Mr. Morgan,” the pianist’s voice gently whispered in my head, giving me a brief sense of comfort as I escaped the chaotic scene.

“You have a kind soul. A heart of gold. But this world is a prospector...and it’s mined you to the core. Now, you’ve become blackened with dust, and the only gold that remains...sits in your pockets.”

I stared at the burning cabin in front of me, my eyes widening in horror as I slowly realized what I had just done, my horse neighing in panic as the raging flames cradled the flimsy wood and embraced its crackling logs, engulfing the entire structure.

“...So take off your mask. Show the world who the true Arthur is. The one who enjoys art, music; who sees the beauty in this land through its flaws and cherishes them. Because as much as you want to believe it...this isn’t the man you are...”

I nailed my gaze onto the storming inferno, admittedly entranced by its graceful yet monstrous display as its light bled into the night sky, kissing my skin with a soft warmth.

“...This is the man Dutch made you.”

The cabin’s roof finally caved in with a low groan, causing my horse to rear wildly as I firmly held on, still unable to tear my eyes away from the blazing fire that only seemed to spread with every passing second, incinerating the trees surrounding it. 

There were no survivors of the botched robbery as far as I could tell, and the only person left to mourn these poor bastards was the very man who brought death upon them in the first place. 

Was I really a good man...? Would that pianist still think I had a “kind soul” if he witnessed what I did tonight? Would he still have loved me? I highly doubted it.

Sure, I had helped people before. Saved those in need. Reunited families...hell -- I’d even rescued strangers from being robbed themselves. But the way I saw it, that just made me worse. 

At least bad men like Colm, Lemieux, and even Milton were honest about their rotten nature. They let it shine brighter than the sun and wore it like a goddamned badge. 

I, on the other hand, hid behind a friendly facade. I deceived people with a smile and manipulated them with false compassion, offering a helping hand...only to strangle them with it later on.

I wasn’t a bad man. I was what the bad men feared.

I was a saint within a sinner. An angel free from the code of any god.

And that was why part of me wished I could just run from Dutch and the gang for good.

It was true -- I loved Dutch. He was my mentor and my father. And the gang...they were my family. I knew it would be a cowardly move to desert them.

But sometimes...I just thought about the life I could’ve had. A life where I was adopted by a regular family. Where I didn’t have to sleep with a gun. Where I could’ve lived with the pianist, and kept him safe from all this war. 

It was a tempting dream to fantasize about, sure...but it was a fool’s dream. Deep down, I knew damn well that such a life ain’t never been for me, and I had no intentions to chase after it. 

I mean, Dutch and I were already stuck searching for this so-called promised land. I didn’t want to add another ghost hunt on my list.

Instead, I simply shed more blood and continued counting the money, lyin’ to my own face about what a “great man” I was as I tried to remember what the hell all of this was for. 

Dutch could preach about Tahiti and freedom and an equal society all he wanted, but the realist in me already knew our future held none of that. 

After all, if livin’ as an outlaw had taught me anything, it was that the one thing in this world to treat people equally...was death.

So, for the moment, I only rode deeper into the wilds and hid in the shadows of the night, hoping that I would live long enough to see the sunrise as I glanced at the sky, saying my first prayer.

I doubted anyone could hear me, dead or alive, and I felt like a deluded idiot grabbing onto his last resort...but I couldn’t deny the reassurance it gave me, however empty it may have been.

I just didn’t know who I could talk to anymore. I used to pour all my troubles on that pianist who had been unfortunate enough to cross paths with me, and now that he was gone...it seemed like the world was dead. Still turnin’, and still carrying on with what it did...but dead. Like the lights were on, but no one was home.

“...Ah, Eddie...” I whispered to myself with a sigh, my voice faltering on the pianist’s name. “Things don’t feel the same without you. It don’t feel right. Dutch and I are still fightin’ for this pointless dream, and we’ll probably die doing it...but it’s where we’re at now. And it’s where we’ll always be.”

I tugged my bandana down and took a deep breath, lazily shaking my head.

“I didn’t deserve you, and I’ll never understand why on Earth you chose a moron like me...but I promise, I ain’t lettin’ you die in vain. We may never find our freedom or the means to start a new life, but at this point...I don’t need to. I just need to know that you were right. That somewhere underneath all this crime...perhaps there’s a hero after all.”

My head hung low in guilt, and I glanced one last time at the flaming cabin in the distance.

“I just hope to Christ you can’t see me now. Not ‘cause you’d be afraid...but because I know you wouldn’t stop loving me."


	3. Eulogy For What Could've Been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another “journal entry” that came to mind as I was playing the game, only this part focuses a bit more on the romance with Eddie. As always, I hope you enjoy, and thank you for taking the time to read this.

From Arthur’s POV

SOMEWHERE IN NEW HANOVER

I held my coat tighter around myself, trotting through the relentless storm as heavy rain showered onto the land beneath, painting the world with a solemn blackness.

I was freezing, soaked, shivering, and as far as I could tell, there were no towns or shops nearby. 

But even then, I was still happier out here than I was at camp.

These days, I couldn’t set one goddamned foot in camp without hearing somebody yellin’ at another about how shitty our situation was instead of actually doing something to change it. That, or they was drinkin’ themselves into a stupor, only to wake up hours later and act all surprised that things ain’t gotten better.

And then, here I was, risking life and limb every single day...always takin’ a beating just to make sure we didn’t starve or get shot in our sleep. 

Abigail and Micah, Karen and Grimshaw, Pearson and Sadie, Bill and everyone else -- they could argue to their hearts’ content for all I cared. The only thing I wanted right now...was some damned peace and quiet.

Well...no. That weren’t entirely true.

The one thing I really wanted, I was no longer capable of having. And even though it was pointless, I spent every second of my life regretting it. 

Not too long ago, I found myself wandering around Saint Denis again, roaming like the lost soul that I was in that dreadful city. People was carryin’ on with their daily routines as always, complaining about the stable jobs they had and the annoying families they were guaranteed to see again. 

But what really caught my eye was a certain abandoned house that had been tucked away in a lonely but serene corner of the city -- if such a place even existed -- whose only resident at the moment...was absence. 

It was a gorgeous house; a home fit for a king. Its elegant front porch was decorated with the withering corpses of what were once beautiful flowers, and the aged brick walls adorned a fresh curtain of vines. 

The interior had been blocked by wooden planks boarding up the tall windows and doors, and no one had been around the estate in ages, but even then...there were still times when I could’ve sworn I heard Eddie’s piano chiming from the inside.

I let out a shaky sigh at the thought of him, my breath turning into mist as the bone-chilling breeze lifted it away.

That boy understood and loved me like no one else I’d ever met. Including Dutch. He judged me by the man I was, and not the man I’d been forced to become. I never felt like I had to hide anything around Eddie. He knew about the life I lived, and the people I was mixed up with, but that only ever seemed to draw him closer. 

He truly was a treasure. One of the few. And much like the other treasures in this world...he was now buried in the ground, locked away from the life we could’ve had together all because of my stupidity.

Eddie offered to take me back with him to England. Said he could get me out of the country and give me a real, fresh start. Give me the freedom and family I had sacrificed so much to find. It sounded like a solid plan.

And like the thickheaded idiot I was...I turned him down flat.

I told the boy I loved him -- which only seemed to break his heart -- and said I wanted more than anything to run away with him...but also stated I couldn’t just abandon Dutch. The man was like my father, after all. He took me in, raised me, educated me -- made me everything I am today. But that didn’t convince Eddie.

Instead, all he said to me was, “...And what are you, Arthur? An outlaw, a thief, a killer? Is this the man you want to be? Because I know damn well it’s not the man you are.”

With tears in his eyes, the poor boy had begged me to forget about Dutch and his deluded promises of a paradise. Admitted he was terrified I could get arrested, or killed, or worse someday...and he’d never even know. Said that every time I walked out of his house, he’d wonder if that was the last time he’d ever see me again.

But despite his pleas, my stubborn mind remained unswayed, and my blind loyalty still sat with old Dutch. 

So, after giving Eddie empty reassurances of my eventual return, I kissed the man goodbye and ran off to my life as an outlaw...throwing away the perfect world we could’ve lived in.

And now, I was stuck in the middle of this godforsaken storm, watching the gang crumble around me as Dutch led us closer to the gates of Hell, using our “faith” as a leash. 

Part of me wanted to run as far away as possible and never look back. I was alone in the wilderness, and hadn’t told anyone where I’d be. I could’ve done it. Right then and there. Just...dropped everything, and pretended Dutch never even existed.

But...being a loyal and sentimental fool, I wiped those thoughts away and carried on with my job, heading to shake the money out of some unfortunate soul Strauss had forced into debt. 

Why couldn’t I leave? I wondered. What the hell was really holdin’ me back? Dutch wasn’t forcing anyone to stay, so was it loyalty? ...Or was it fear? 

And if it was fear, what was I so afraid of? 

I guessed...I was afraid of losing Dutch himself. Even with everything he was doing, I couldn’t deny that I found some comfort in having a father figure around. Someone I knew I could trust. Someone who had been by my side through thick and thin.

I mean, I had just lost Eddie. I didn’t wanna add another name to the list of dead friends in my journal...even if it meant I’d go down with him.

So, like the lapdog Dutch raised me to be, I continued to trudge through the rainfall as pale beams of light broke through the dark sea of clouds, shining on this desolate, dying land of opportunity. 

There weren’t much else I could do for Eddie or his legacy at this point, and I was even forced to keep a distance from his grave because of all the damned cops lurking around Saint Denis...but I refused to let his memory die with him.

After all, he brought so much more to this world than it realized, and mankind didn’t remember history like it claimed. It only recorded it.

Thus, with every chance I got, I added a new passage to my weathered, old journal that no one else would probably read, slowly but surely writing a eulogy...for what could’ve been. 

It was the least of what I owed Eddie, and the only debt that deserved being collected: My life.


End file.
